


Five Times Sam Almost Got What He Wanted. And One Time He Did.

by Colette_Capricious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colette_Capricious/pseuds/Colette_Capricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a long and winding road but Sam will get there eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They Say That He Got Crazy Once and He Tried to Touch the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Sam is 16 at the beginning.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They’re sixteen and twenty and lying next to some river in the thin air and hot sun of a Rocky Mountain late August afternoon._

They’re sixteen and twenty and lying next to some river in the thin air and hot sun of a Rocky Mountain late-August afternoon. Dean's on his stomach, head pillowed on his arms. Sam lays on his back, one arm across his eyes to block the sun. The last of the summer heat envelopes them, dropping down from the sky and up from the flat river rock. Unseen rapids crash behind them, but the river is quieter here where it widens. The wind through the pine trees carpeting the hills sounds like the sea, and Sam's blood pulsed with the rhythm of that invisible ocean. It soothes some of the anger that seems to be always with him lately - pushing at his temples, clenching his hands, and beating hard, hard against his chest. He closes his eyes and imagines the anger slipping out his body through the soles of his feet and washing away down the river. It works, a little, and he inhales deeply. The air carries the scent of pine, hot dust, suntan lotion, and Dean. Always Dean. If Sam had the energy, he could shift his arm to the left and brush against Dean. One more deep breath in, and he finds the energy.

He moves on the exhale, shifting his shoulders and stretching out his arm towards Dean. It could almost be accidental, just a stretch. There’s not a lot of room on the rock, after all, and they're forced to lay close together. It’s the lightest of touches, just the outside edge of his little finger; the tip of his ring finger. Dean’s skin is so smooth against Sam’s. And warm, almost hot. Sam turns his head, risks a look. Dean shirtless in the sun is blinding, not something to be looked at directly. He slits his eyes and pokes gently at a point over Dean’s ribs. It whitens then pinks up as Sam reluctantly pulls way.

Dean grunts and rolls a millimeter away and then back. “Sammy,” he mumbles, sleepy with the heat and sun and beautiful nothingness of their days here. “Tickles.” 

Sam rolls onto his side, head resting on his outstretched arm, fingers still barely touching Dean’s side. With a low groan, Dean lifts his head up a fraction and rolls towards Sam. Then he smiles at Sam; that soft, sweet smile that he saves only for Sam. As always, it always takes his breath away. Blood pounds in his veins - at his throat, wrists, behind his knees, in his ears. It’s not anger, not this time. It’s a drumbeat calling him to battle. He spider-walks his fingers up Dean’s side, shifting minutely towards Dean. Dean’s eyes, greener than the pine trees, never leave his. Dean has never been able to hide his feelings from Sam, his face saying all the things his words never can. Sam can see, it’s all on him. Dean’s not pulling away, but he’s not getting closer either. Sam’s choice.

“You’re…” He clears his suddenly parched throat, tries again. “You’re hot.” One of Dean’s eyebrows raises, his mouth quirked in a half-smirk. “I…I mean. You’re burned. Sunburn.” Sam slides his hand further across Dean’s back, splays his hand wide against Dean’s skin, little finger just brushing the waistband of Dean’s damp denim shorts.

“Life well-lived, Sammy boy.” Dean’s tone is light but his eyes are dark. His skin twitches under Sam’s hand. “Did you bring the sunscreen?”

The words don’t mean anything to Sam, they merge with the gushing of the river. He's mesmerized by the contrast of smooth, sun-warmed skin against the cool roughness of the wet denim. His eyes skitter from the deep green of Dean’s gaze, catch on the freckles scattered across his nose and cheekbones, get stuck on the chapped, plush lips. Sam inhale sharply as Dean’s tongue darts out and he licks his lips. The drums pound inside him, rocking him forward, into Dean. He pushes his mouth against those lips, his hand slipping underneath the denim. And, Dean, _god_ , Dean doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t punch Sam or curse him out or recoil in disgust the way he had so many times in Sam’s imagination. Dean surges up, lips glued to Sam’s, and rolls Sam onto his back. Sam moans loudly as Dean’s weight settles on him, his free arm locking around Dean’s shoulders, his hand slipping further under Dean’s waistband. They both groan and the muscles of Dean’s ass clench under Sam’s palm. “Please. Dean, please,” Sam finds himself gasping into Dean’s mouth between kisses. Dean’s tongue is hot and wet, everywhere in Sam’s mouth, stealing his breath.

Sam clamps his hand in Dean’s hair, pulling him closer. Dean shifts his leg over Sam, sliding between his thighs, pushing up against his balls. Dean grinds down on Sam, and Sam grasps Dean’s hips and surges up, yanking his mouth away to gasp for air.

“Fuck. Fuck, Sammy,” Dean pants against Sam’s neck as their cocks press against each other with the thrusts they can't control. “Tell me to stop. Tell me!”

Sam grabs him in answer, sealing their mouths together. The feeling of Dean’s cock, hot even through the denim and pressing almost too roughly into Sam’s thin shorts, makes Sam’s brain spin. He can’t think, can’t breathe, he couldn’t stop now if Dad showed up and put a gun to his head. He certainly can’t comprehend it when Dean springs up and away from him. Sam’s chest heaves, his eyes wild, as he watches Dean walk quickly away and slip into the water.

Sam pushes up on his elbows, mouth open, and erection pressing hard and unmistakable in his shorts. “What the fuck, Dean?” he calls just as a group of kids come crashing into the clearing. He can hear women further down the path telling them not to go into the water until they are closer.

“Fuck.” Sam flips over onto his stomach, heart pounding, panting. “Oh god.” He thrusts his hips hard into the ground, once, twice, and comes (mostly) silently in his shorts. He lays there until Dean comes out of the water and stands, dripping, over him.

“Come on, Sam.” Dean doesn’t make eye contact as he gathers up their towels and walks away.

For the next few months, Dean shies away from Sam’s touch, until one day Sam stops trying. But he never stops wanting.


	2. Darling, You've Got to Let Me Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dean won’t leave, Sam knew that before he’d even asked. If there was one thing Sam knew it was that Dean would never tell him to leave and never ask him to stay. It’s Sam’s choice. It always was and always would be._

They’re 18 and 21, and Sam is pulling his world down around himself. Harsh words, said and unsaid, fogged the windows of the Impala. Straddling Dean awkwardly in the front seat, head bent against the roof, right hip wedged bruise-tight against the steering wheel, Sam kisses Dean’s eyes and tastes the unshed tears.

 _If you walk out that door, then don’t ever come back._ John's ultimatum. Sam had walked out, slamming the door. Dean had followed, Dean always followed.

Now they’re parked outside the bus station, all Sam owns stuffed into a backpack, and Stanford beckoning like freedom and the future and normal and safety all rolled into one. But this - Dean’s hand hard against Sam head, fingers wound through his hair. Dean’s mouth soft and wet under his – how can he leave this? He groans as he rolls against Dean’s hip, thighs clenching. He surges like the sea, torn between nipping and licking and forcing his way into Dean’s mouth, and rutting his aching cock into Dean’s body. The car is too small and he’s too tall to do both at the same time. Frustration pushes past his teeth in a whine, and Dean know what Sam wants, always knows. Dean twists and turns, pulling and shifting them until Sam is pressed between Dean and the seat. Sam grabs Dean, one hand on his ass, one clenched behind his head, pushing, pushing against him, chasing release and too close, too scared, too desperate to even try to get their clothes off.

“Fuck. Sammy,” Dean gasps as Sam shoves his hand between them, twisting it to press against Dean’s length. “Please.” He shifts his weight to the side, wedges his arm between Sam and the back of the seat, and rips at the button on his jeans. Sam is skinnier, stretched with the last growth spurt, and his thrift-store jeans just slide down his hips as Dean yanks them down. Sam cries out as their cocks press together. 

“Jesus. Dean. Dean.” Sam is panting and the car is rocking so hard someone must notice soon. Dean pulls away and straight out bites Sam, lips warm and teeth hard and cold against his neck. Sam’s orgasm hits him at the same time as two revelations. One, Dean is crying, Sam can taste the tears. And two, words are spilling from Sam’s mouth, running into Dean’s, pouring down between them and mixing with Dean’s tears. A desperate exhalation _Come with me. Come with me_ on every breath. 

Sam holds Dean as he falls off the edge right after Sam. They lay together, breathing, Sam rubs his head against Dean’s shoulder like a toddler after a tantrum. Dean huffs a small laugh. “Sammy. That’s…that’s some load. You’re…” he clears his throat. “You’re gonna have to change your pants before, ah, before the bus…y’know.”

Sam holds his breath. “Dean.” It comes out as a whisper. “Dean. Come with me.”

Dean drops his head onto Sam’s shoulder. Sam feels it rocking back and forth, feels the denial in Dean’s shoulders and back and the way he pulls away somehow without moving, hands loosening, not pushing away but not holding on. Dean won’t leave, Sam knew that before he’d even asked. If there was one thing Sam knows it is that Dean will never tell him to leave and never ask him to stay. It’s Sam’s choice. It always is and always will be.

Later, alone under the harsh lights of the bus station bathroom, pulling off his come-sodden jeans and underwear and dabbing at his groin with handfuls of wet toilet paper, Sam wonders if what he stands to gain can ever be worth what he might have just lost.


	3. Every Day It's a Gettin Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same song, different verse.
> 
>   _But Sam’s forgotten that although Dean doesn’t know he won’t remember this day, doesn’t know how many times he’s already died, Dean knows he’s going to hell soon. And he has nothing to lose._

They’re 24 and 28, and Sam is living through his 93rd Tuesday. Today, Sam crowds into Dean’s personal space and stays. He plans to keep Dean in bed all day. He's under no illusion that it will keep Dean alive; he’s given up on that for today. He rally, come back to fight again. But for today, for this today, he needs this. Needs Dean’s body to transmute anger, fear, and desperation, to passion and forgetfulness. 

And Dean won’t remember. There won’t be any consequences. 

Sam thinks, guiltily, that he can do what he wants, profess his love, fuck Dean on every surface, mark him, do and say all the things he’s yearned to. And Dean can mock him, push him away (but Sam knows he won’t, Dean never did, never does) profess his love back and it won’t matter. Sam will finally get what he wants: Dean begging, pleading for Sam with those perfect lips and jewel-green eyes. 

But Sam’s forgotten that although Dean doesn’t know he won’t remember this day, doesn’t know how many times he’s already died, Dean knows he’s going to hell soon. And he has nothing to lose.

Which is why Sam finds himself spread-eagled on his back, wrists cuffed to the cheap metal bed frame, two of Dean’s fingers in his ass, his other arm an iron band across his hips, holding him still and hard against the cheap scratchy sheets. Dean’s mouth ( _god his mouth_ ) moves slowly and teasingly up and down his cock. It’s been hours, longer than the unending Tuesdays, and Sam is the one begging, pleading, promising anything, anything Dean wants, anyway Dean wants to use him, if he will just let Sam come. Dean lifts off quickly, warm heat and iron arm pulling away at the same time. Sam sobs, hips fucking the air that is almost too much on his oversensitive skin. In one graceful move, like the predator he is, Dean stretches, slinks up Sam’s body, pressing against him from shoulders to feet, cock throbbing against Sam's, fingers clenched in Sam’s hair. “Anything, baby boy?”

“Anything,” Sam sobs, thrusting helplessly against the blessed friction, catching on the fine hairs on Dean’s stomach, ass clenching on nothing. _Close, so close_. Dean twists his head, licks up Sam’s neck and Sam gasps and stops breathing. “Anything.” Dean bites hard on his earlobe and Sam comes, breath punched out of him, body heaving, twisting, pulsing, hands yanking desperately against the restraints as they try in vain to touch Dean. The clanking of cuffs against bed frame isn't loud enough to down out Dean’s voice even though it's little more than air against Sam’s ear. "Then save me," Dean prays as he comes. 

Sam never does say _I love you._

When Sam watches his brother die again, ripped to shreds by hellhounds, those whispered words ringing, ringing inside his head, he knows he was so wrong. There are always consequences.


	4. Crying Won't Help You, Praying Won't Do You No Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down to the end and it doesn't matter what's real or what's not.
> 
>   _Sam can’t even pretend he doesn’t understand. He knows what he’s becoming. But it’s what he has to do. What they need._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is darker. Knife play, blood, demon-blood addicted Sam and his hallucinations aren't playing nice.

They’re 25 and 29. Dean is out of hell, raised from perdition by an actual angel. Sam is in own personal hell. Dean called him a monster, and Dean’s angel calls him an abomination.

“He’s not wrong,” Dean says from the foot on the cot on which Sam lies chained. The fan blades passing slowly through the light streaming down into Bobby’s panic room paint cast alternating stripes of light and dark across Dean’s face. His eyes glitter in the dark.

“Dean,” Sam gasps, straining against the restraints. 

Dean paces a slow circle around Sam, coming in and out of the light, and Sam cranes his neck to watch. The words hurt, more than any knife or bullet or claw or tooth ever has, but it’s Dean, and Sam can’t look away.

Dean leans in, hand by Sam’s head, face so close. Sam feels Dean’s breath and the heat from his body. The shivering from Dean's touch smashing against the shuddering from the head of his words until Sam is almost paralyzed with it.

“You're a monster.” The gravel in Dean’s voice scrapes across Sam’s face and he flinches.

“Shut up! Just—shut. The hell. Up -” Sam shouts to the fake Dean. _It is a hallucination, right? It has to be_. 

“You were always a monster. And you only feel right when you're sucking down more poison and more evil.” The hatred and anger and disgust cut into Sam and he strains, rattling, pulling against the straps that tie him down, pain and desperation in his eyes. 

“Monster, Sam. You're a monster.”

“Dean, no.”

“And I tried so hard to pretend that we were brothers. That you weren't one of the filthy things that we hunt. But we're not even the same species. You're nothing to me.”

“Don't say that to me. Don't you say that to me.” Tears fill his eye but don’t fall. Dean can’t leave him, can’t not love him. He’s doing this for Dean. To be strong enough to save him, strong enough stop Lilith, save everyone, they way he couldn't save Dean. He loves Dean, needs him more than air. Sam turns away, straining, then Dean darts in, grabbing Sam's his wrist. He leans even closer in, finger rubbing roughly where the padding under the chains meets skin. Sam can’t stop the shudder that runs through him when Dean’s dry lips brush against his ear. “Is it the taste of it you crave? Ruby’s blood? Or maybe it’s the fucking.” Dean rumbles quietly, privately, running his finger against the skin on Sam’s wrist. Sam sucks in air with a gasp. “Do you like fucking a demon while its blood runs through your veins?”

“Dean. It isn’t like …” Sam gasps as Dean’s tongue flicks hummingbird wing fast against his ear, and then Dean’s pulling away. Just far enough away to slide his face over Sam’s. His hand catches on the handcuffs and he slides up the bare skin to the softness of Sam’s inner elbow. His fingers dance there, sliding around gently, feeling Sam’s pulse. 

“What, Sam? It isn’t like that? You didn’t shove your hard cock into your demon slut while her blood dripped down your throat?” Dean chuckles low and dirty. He presses down onto the vein and tendons under his finger. Sam feels his blood speeding up, feels the edge of pain and Dean’s hands on him, and hears the wrongness is Dean’s voice. And it makes him hard. Dean straightens up, twists his thumb harder into Sam and laughs when Sam gasps.

“Yeah it is like that, Sammy.” Dean scratches up Sam’s arm, dragging his blunt nails up Sam’s neck. Callused hands run over Sam’s face as Dean circles behind him and squats low, until his mouth is close on Sam’s ear again. “I remember, you know.” Dean grabs Sam’s jaw with both his hands. “I remember you and me,” he purrs, yanking up until Sam’s neck is stretched up like an offering. “I know how you like it.”

“Dean!” Sam’s gasp is a desperate hollow thing, breath his throat as the blood rushes to his cock. He’s desperately hard now. He feels Dean site down his body and that low raspy chuckle echoes against his head.

“Yeah.” Dean stands up, one hand never leaving Sam’s body as he continues his circle. “You think I forgot the last time I had you cuffed to a bed? So fucking hot, Sammy.”

Sam can’t take his eyes off Dean as he stalks to the foot of the bed. Dean’s eyes are locked on his. “You’re a dirty boy.” He pulls his large hunting knife out and holds it up between them. Neither can look away as Dean tilts it back and forth. Light glints off of the metal, into Sam’s eyes. He blinks, and time jumps. Dean is on him now, legs straddling Sam, left arm bracing him up by Sam’s head. Their foreheads touch as they look down to where Dean has the blade of the knife pressed against Sam’s cock. Sam shudders, drawing in a ragged breath as his hips lurch up, desperate for more pressure. But Dean’s hand just floats up, following the movement of Sam’s hips. Sam whines, twisting against the restraints. Dean’s laughs against Sam's mouth, and drags his tongue across Sam’s lips, biting until Sam opens to him. Sam licks the blood off his lips. “Fuck, Sam.” Dean flips the knife, drawing the blunt edge of down the middle of the bulge in Sam’s jeans. Not sharp, but deep enough to feel the edge and imagine. “You love it. The sex, the blood, the power. Don’t you?”

Sam can’t move. His head moves in an aborted _no_ and his mouth opens and Dean presses down even harder, rocking the blade against the head of his cock. 

“You love the way it makes you feel.” Dean shifts his weight, settling his thigh hard against Sam’s groin. Rocking roughly as he draws the sharp edge of the blade up Sam’s inner arm, presses just the slightest bit into it. Blood wells up in a thin line. “Love the pain.”

Sam can hardly breathe. Can’t speak. Wouldn’t know what to say even if he could. Because he does. He does love it. Loves how strong he is, how he can make the demons do what he wants. How he could, if he were free, make Dean do what he wants. What he needs Dean to do. To see him. To understand. To trust him. To fuck him. To beg Sam for it. “Dean.” He gasps for air, for words. Dean rocks hard against him, weight heavy on Sam’s body. Hard muscles of his thigh pushing, pushing against Sam’s cock. Sam’s head spins with the rush of approaching orgasm, with the sight of the deep red of his blood. 

Dean twists the knife sharply, a quick deeper bite of pain, and Sam inhales with a gasp, chest heaving and hips thrusting mindlessly. Dean rolls off in a flash. “No. Don’t come,” he orders. Sam sobs with the effort of staving off the blinding pleasure. 

“Good boy.” Dean rolls, lying right across Sam’s body, pressed against him from chest to toes, hard cocks throbbing through two layers of denim. He holds the knife up between them. Too close for Sam to really focus on but he knows it’s there. Can smell his blood. The blood from the cut on his inner arm that pulses in time with the blood in his cock, with the beat of his heart against Dean’s chest. “You need demon blood, Sammy? Well, it’s right here.”

Sam can’t even pretend he doesn’t understand. He knows what he’s becoming. But it’s what he has to do. What they need. 

Dean rolls his hips into Sam nonstop. Pushing and pushing. He drags the blade down into Sam’s arm again and the pain travels from his arm to his cock. Drawing the first pulses of orgasm out of him. Dean groans and holds the knife up to Sam’s lips again. “C’mon, Sam. Right here. It’s your choice. Power? Control? Or…”

Sam darts his head up before Dean can finish, licks his own blood off the knife and comes instantly, fists clenched in the sheet, blood roaring in his ears, dripping down his arm, tingling on his tongue, come pulsing out his dick. He hears Dean whisper “Or me?” and he realizes his hips are pumping against nothing. He is alone in the room. Sam shudders against the aftershocks, pulling the restraints at wrist and ankle.

Later, when Dean tells him not to ever come back if he walks out that door, he knows what he has to do. He is strong enough and he will stop Lilith. Then Dean will have to see, to know Sam was right. He made the right choice.


	5. How Sweet The Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam soul is torn and flayed open and still worth saving. 
> 
>   _They are men now and they are going into this with their eyes open. Making a choice to cross that line. Sam can’t blame it on the heat, or grief, or alcohol. If they do this, they’re going into it with their eyes open._

They are 28 and 32, and Dean’s saying _something’s gonna get us eventually, and when my guts get ripped out, just so you two know, we’re good. Blanket apology for all the crap that anybody’s done all the way around._

Sam’s flayed and damaged soul is locked behind Death’s wall, his grandfather is dead by his hand, the Mother of All Monsters walks the earth, and Dean has just absolved him of all his sins. Even the ones he doesn’t remember committing. He feels the memories of what he did in his soulless state twitch and scuttle behind the wall in his head. Sam fights the urge to drag them into the light – _Don’t scratch at the wall, Sam_. Death’s dry voice echoes in head.

He doesn’t know what to make of it, what to do with Dean’s pronouncement. Dean means it, of that he has no doubt. They both see the roads ahead of them. See Sam in Samuel’s willingness to sacrifice the living and breathing for the dead and buried. See Dean in Rufus’ choice to sacrifice love on the altar of self-righteous indignation.

Following Dean into the musty dark air of Bobby’s house, he picks at the healing words like a scab. Dean grabs the half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker Blue out of Bobby’s unconscious hand as they pass the kitchen, lifts an eyebrow at Sam, and Sam grabs two glasses out of the dish drain.

“Bobby’s going to kill us.”

Dean’s mouth quirks. “He can’t. I bought it. It’s my bottle, little brother. Now shut up.”

“Add it to that blanket apology,” Sam says, tone aiming for joking and missing by a mile.

“Shut up, Sam.” Dean stomps away. 

Sam stares at Dean’s back. Something he’s done a million million times in his life. Stare at Dean, trying to understand how he can just…let stuff go like that. It seems like it would be so easy to accept Dean’s absolution, but he just can’t. 

_Ego te absólvo a peccátis tuis_

“It isn’t that easy, Dean,” he hears himself say as he trails Dean up the narrow stairway to the small bedroom Dean had claimed as his own years ago. Sam sometimes shares it when Bobby’s well-stocked pantry overflows the downstairs and starts taking up all the available space in the house. This is one of those times.

"It is, Sam” Dean says, voice funeral gruff. “I’m sorry, Bobby’s sorry, and you’re sorry.” He rubs his face with his hand and shakes his head, saying no, just no to all of it, all the past hurts. 

Sam can’t let himself off the hook that easily, never could. He was always wrong, tainted, instincts all fucked and destined to get someone hurt. He always makes the wrong choice. “How can you say sorry for me for things I don’t even remember doing?” Sam’s voice rises at the end, crowding closer to Dean in the small room, arms spread in supplication to the god he knows isn’t listening, or to Dean. _Either one_ , Sam thinks.

Dean sits down heavily on the twin bed and leans against the wall. He closes his eyes and knocks his head into the wall, emphasizing each word with a thud. “Just.” Thud. “Let.” Thud. “It.” Thud. “ Go.”

Sam nods quickly, “Okay. Okay, Dean.” For now, he thinks.

Sam drops down next to his brother, thighs pressing together. He holds the glasses up, an offering, an apology. Dean pours three fingers into each one. They clink the glasses together gently and raise them in unison, drinking in silence in honor of Rufus, of Ellen and Jo and Dad, and all the others that have gone on ahead of them. In honor of the whiskey itself, the good stuff, earned only in death.

“What do you think happened in Omaha?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head. “I dunno. Bobby never talks about it. I’m sure someone died. Someone always dies.” _Life’s short, and ours are shorter than most._ They both drink to that, Dean sighing appreciatively at burn of the liquor, Sam lost in thought.

Dean shifts a few inches and gently pushes Sam off him. Funny, Sam hadn’t noticed leaning against him in the first place. But it had been a long-ass day. Long-ass year. Long-ass fucking life. Sam blinks at that last thought, shouldn’t that be a …good…thing? He half-way registers Dean stripping off his coat and overshirt, then manhandling Sam to do the same to him. Dean pulls them both back against the wall, toeing off his boots, kicking at Sam’s ankles until he does the same. “No grave dirt –“

“- on the bed. Yeah, I know.” Sam kicks his shoes off with a little too much force and they fly across the room, almost toppling some precarious stacks of god-knows-how-old books and a few cardboard boxes of dubious-looking junk.

“Nice. Destroy the whole house why don’t you?”

Sam tries to make a face but gets a little dizzy from the whiskey and the way Dean is pulling him back against the wall and shoving and squirming until they’re sitting up against the headboard and Sam is tucked up under Dean’s right arm, Sam’s left arm trapped between them, back to the wall, just like they used to sit when they were kids. Sam tenses. Dean has barely touched him since…since Hell. Since he was brought back so wrong. Barely touched him even in the years before that. Sam remembers every touch, every hug, every time it was…more. He also knows Dean doesn’t share two of Sam’s memories. One endless Tuesday, and one time Sam is almost 95% convinced was a hallucination. Had to be. He’s stiff, conscious of the heat of Dean’s body with only two thin layers of cotton separating them. That's almost naked for the Winchester boys who sleep fully-dressed as if they would have to run for their lives at any minute. A habit that has saved them from naked death more than once.

Sam turns to look up Dean, his cheek rubbing against Dean’s soft t-shirt and he wonders if Dean can feel his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest. From the way Dean rubs his hand gently down Sam’s arm, a small huff of laugh escaping his perfect mouth, Sam’s sure he can. Dean’s breath is warm against Sam’s face and it smells like whiskey.

“Jesus, relax, Sammy.” He rubs the hand holding his glass across his face, rolling the coolness against his closed eyes. “Relax. It’s just…I just missed you, man.” He keeps his eyes closed. “Soulless-you sucked.” He opens his eyes quickly. “Don’t you dare say sorry again.”

Sam exhales with a sigh and relaxes just a little into Dean’s body. “Yeah. I missed you, too.” Missed is a word a million times too weak for the blank aching hollowness that was the worst torture in hell, but he figures Dean knows. Dean was in hell, too. “God, Dean. I’m so sorry for–"

“Fuck.” Dean’s hand tightens almost painfully on Sam’s arm, fingers pressing against the skin and muscles. “Just fucking…stop fucking apologizing. It wasn’t you. Okay? I’m over it. You should be, too.”

Sam sits up as best he can, alcohol sloshing around in his head, hand hard against Dean’s chest. He can feel the earnest expression on his face, the one (one of the many) Dean mocks him for. But Dean has to understand. Has to. This is important. “But it was me, Dean. That’s just it. The things I did? The way I acted without a soul? That was inside me. All those things were things I wanted to do.”

Dean is staring into Sam’s eyes, boring into Sam. Sam feels Dean’s chest rising and falling. Rising and falling so fast. Dean’s hand, still clutching the glass, pushing against Sam’s. Whether to push him away or keep him there, Sam can’t tell. But Dean is listening. Sam can tell that.

“And…and I’m not just…not just sorry for the last year. But for everything. For…Ruby. And not trusting you. For…Lilith.” Dean’s eyes are hard but he doesn’t look away. This is nothing new, these are old hurts. Sam has confessed to these sins many times. He takes a deep breath, this is harder. This needs to be sad. “And for leaving. I am so sorry for running away. All those times. Remember my heaven?”

Dean closes his eyes, and Sam sees him swallow. Feels the quick rise and fall of his chest. Yeah, Dean remembers.

“Sorry. Sorry. Those weren’t –“

“Stop fucking – “

“-the ones I would have picked.”

Sam pushes hard against Dean’s chest, drops his head back against Dean’s shoulder. This time it's Dean who tenses up. “No, Dean. Let me finish. You need to know. You need to know.” Sam grabs the tumbler in Dean’s hand and tilts it so the whiskey slides from Dean’s glass to Sam’s mouth. Closes his eyes, inhales, does it again. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him. Feels Dean waiting. Not joking, not pushing away a chick flick moment. Just waiting. It feels like a gift, like something Dean is offering, something that Sam just can’t name.

“The bad…things? The bad part? The anger, the pride, the selfishness. It’s always been in me. It’s always me. As long as I can remember. And…and I fight it. Most of the time I can fight it.”

“Sammy,” Dean exhales. Sam covers Dean’s mouth with his hand. 

“I know I’m tainted, Dean. The demon blood is in me and it’s not going anywhere. But I think, more than that, I think it’s just me. What I am.”

Dean inhales deeply and Sam can feel the anger building. His head thuds to the bed as Dean surges up and quickly and gracefully slams Sam to the bed, straddling his hips. He lifts Sam by the shoulders, shaking him.

“Shut the fuck up.” Dean’s eyes burn down at him. “You are not bad. You are not evil, or tainted, or whatever the fuck goes on in the messed up brain of your’s.”

Sam almost can’t think with the feel of Dean’s weight pressing against him. Dean’s thighs grabbing him and his hands clenching against him. Sam grabs at Dean’s wrists, shakes his head in denial. “No. I am. You don’t know, you don’t know what I was running from…” Sam’s hands slide up Dean’s arms, almost of their own volition. Almost, but not quite. “Why I always had to go.” Sam won’t meet his eyes. “What memories I would pick to spend eternity in.”

“Sam,” Dean barks. Sam looks up in time to see Dean’s eyes go dark, black expanding to swallow the green. He swoops forward, pushing at Sam, sliding up, taking Sam’s hands with him and pinning them on either side of Sam’s head. Sam’s breath hitches, catching in his throat as he feels Dean’s legs slide down the bed against his body, socked feet hooking over Sam’s ankles and rubbing. Sam’s not sure Dean’s even aware he’s doing that. Dean leans down onto his elbows, mouth inches from Sam’s ear, chests almost, but not quite, touching. Dean’s breath is hot, so hot, in Sam’s ear. “Sam. I knew. I know.” Dean’s voice, like honey over gravel, pours over Sam and he can’t hold back the full-body shudder. His fingers caress the inside of Sam’s wrists. “You think I didn’t know? You think I don’t –" he pushes down with a roll of the hips that arches Sam’s back, his neck, makes him offer himself up to Dean – “don’t remember?”

Sam gasps for air. “I didn’t…I didn’t think you did.” He can’t stop moving, undulating against Dean. He feels Dean moving with him, hands grinding into the fragile bones at Sam’s wrist. He feels the stubble on Dean’s face against his own as Dean mouths up and down the column of his neck, still up on his elbows, pressed against Sam from the waist down.

“I couldn’t forget, Sammy. Never. I couldn’t.” Dean releases Sam’s wrist and slides his arms even further up, cradling Sam’s head with his forearms, hands tight in Sam’s hair and finally, finally, kisses Sam. It's the kiss Sam has been waiting for for ten years, for centuries in hell, for forever. Sam opens for Dean and Dean enters, claiming Sam’s mouth like it was meant only for him. Like it was the undiscovered country. Like it was the first time.

Flashes of light and dark appear in front of Sam’s eyelids before they are forced to concede to their bodies’ demands for oxygen, and Dean wrenches off of Sam with a shuddering breath. Sam’s chest heaves, moving Dean up and down with each inhale. Dean’s gaze burns into Sam, eyes desperate.

“Sammy. Sammy.” Dean closes his eyes and turns his head away from his brother. He swallows and turns back. There is so much in his eyes, love and desire, and hope and fear. And something more terrifying. Sam's mind shies away from deciphering it, and he strains up to kiss Dean again. Dean groans into the kiss, his hips grinding his rock-hard length into Sam’s over and over until Sam is dizzy with it.

Dean wrenches away from Sam, throws his body to the edge of the bed until only their entangled legs and Sam’s arm around his back keep him from falling off. The arm still around Sam’s head pushes and pulls into Sam’s hair. “Sammy.”

“Dean. God, Dean.” Sam’s breathing is wild. It’s so close, what he’s always wanted, always needed. And he’s not alone in it. He can’t understand why Dean is stopping. “Dean, please.”

Dean shushes Sam as he rubs his hand soothingly on Sam’s chest, down his belly, fingers slipping under Sam’s t-shirt and flicking against the waistband of his jeans. “Shh. Sam, it’s okay.” His hand stops low on Sam’s stomach, slides over to his hip, pinky and ring finger slipping underneath his jeans, thumb circling over the bone until Sam thinks he could come just from that. “Sam.” Dean is using his serious voice. The one that says no joking, no avoiding, this is real, and Sam has to look at him. He turns his head to stare into his brother's green eyes. “Sammy, we’re not kids anymore.”

And Sam knows then that Dean does remember. Remembers those hot summer teenage days by the river and a fever-dream of a goodbye all those years ago when it seemed possible they would never have each other again. In their world, goodbyes are almost always forever. Sam looks at Dean, sees the creases time has worn into his face, knows he also looks years away from that boy that left. Another lifetime, before heaven and hell reached into their lives. They’ve both loved and lost others, lost each other time and time again. “If we do this…” Dean continues, gesturing between them, to where their legs are still entwined.

“I know.” Sam does know. They're men now, and they are going into this with their eyes open, making a conscious decision to cross that line. Sam can’t blame it on the heat, or grief, or alcohol. “I know.” And he pulls Dean down onto him.

It’s hard and it’s hot and it’s too, too fast. So long in coming, there’s no other way it could be. Dean reaches down for one last draw from the glass, one last toast to the past, to the future, and dips down to kiss Sam, letting the liquid burn from his mouth down Sam’s throat. 

Dean slides down Sam’s body, peppering his chest with kisses, and unbuttoning Sam’s jeans as he goes. Sam lifts his hips as Dean’s tongue slips around the cut of muscle, gasps as Dean manages to slide his jeans and boxers off at the same time, kicking them the last few inches, and bite into the bones at Sam’s hip at the Sam time. “Fuck, Dean.”

Dean chuckles darkly as he pushes against Sam’s thighs, opening them so he can settle in deeper. “Like that?” he asks, nuzzling against the crease of Sam’s thighs. Sam can feel his eyebrows wriggling suggestively. “I think,” Sam sucks in air at the feel of Dean’s tongue ghosting over his rock-hard cock. “Shit, I think, you’ve, God, done this before.”

This time Dean looks up at him with that trademark Winchester grin, and now Sam can see the eyebrow wiggle. “Don’t ask, don’t tell, Sammy boy.” And Sam jackknifes off the bed as Dean opens his mouth and swallows him down.

Sam pants and moans, words reduced to nothing more than obscenities, Dean’s name, and all the names of god. His hands fist in the sheets until Dean pries them off and places them on his head. Sam grips hard at the short silky strands. “Holy fuck, Dean,” he exhales like the last prayer he’ll ever say, and comes hard down his brother’s throat. Dean takes it all and holds him in his mouth through it all, hands gentling up and down Sam’s legs through the shuddering aftershocks. Sam is panting as he grasps blindly for Dean’s shoulder, trying to haul him up the bed. 

Dean lets himself be pulled up, one hand unbuttoning his own jeans and sliding out of them and up Sam’s body. Sam kisses hard into Dean, licking himself out of Dean’s mouth, and gathers what is left of his spine and energy and rolls them over. He leans up, pulling off his t-shirt. Dean lift up and lets Sam take his off as well.

He looks down the length of his brother’s body, scarred and hard from years of fighting. Strong, wide, and muscled, a man’s body, both of them long outgrown the gangly length of youth. He drags his gaze back to Dean’s face. “So beautiful,” he breathes, reaching out to touch Dean’s cheeks, his perfect mouth.

“Sam, please.” Dean’s voice is strained and he grips Sam’s wrist hard, adding to the bruises already forming there. Sam can’t wait to see them. Dean drags Sam’s hand down. “For the love of god, please.”

Sam smiles the smile of the recently orgasmic. Dean’s cock is so hard it’s shiny, so wet at the tip and on Dean’s belly. “Something you want?” Sam asks, aiming for innocent but sounding like sin on a plate.

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean forces out between gritted teeth. “Touch me, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam answers, reaching down to grab Dean hard at the same time his mouth bites down on the place where Dean’s neck meets his shoulder.

“Sammy!” Dean’s shout is so loud and his voice so obviously sex-strained that Sam sends a brief prayer that Bobby is still passed out downstairs. He jerks his brother hard and fast, calloused hands catching on the skin, slicked only by the liquid pearling from the tip. Dean thrusts up and up and up off the bed into Sam’s hand. He’s quiet now, just the sound of panting breath and skin on skin filling up the empty room. Sam can’t keep his mouth off Dean and he moves like a man possessed, marking Dean’s skin with bites and bruises. One particularly hard bite on Dean’s nipple and he’s coming apart in Sam’s hand. Pulsing and chanting _Sammy, Sammy_ under his breath, Dean comes for what feels like minutes.

They lie next to each other in the too-small bed as the sun sets outside. Dean leans over the edge and snags one of their shirts from the floor, wiping himself off.

“That’s my shirt,” Sam whines, complaining more for appearances than any real concern for his shirt.

“Next time we’ll use mine,’ Dean promises, groping blinding for the comforter that had slipped to the floor. He pulls it up, shoving and positioning and man-handling Sam like he seemed to love to do until they are pressed hard against each other under the softness of the ancient blanket. He turns and looks at Sam, a smile on his lips. He is so beautiful and open, Sam almost can’t look at him. That thing Sam can’t name is in Dean’s eyes again. Sam closes his eyes against it. He isn’t worthy of this, this love, he shouldn’t be able to have this, this Righteous Man, heaven’s chosen. Not him, not Lucifer’s vessel, tainted with demon blood and death and a century in hell. He turns away.

“Hey.” Dean’s fingers grip Sam’s chin firmly and turn his face up. “Hey, look at me. C’mon, Sammy. Open your eyes.” 

Sam does. 

“It’s okay. I love you, it’s okay.” And Dean kisses him gently, on the lips, on each eyelid. Like a blessing, like a benediction. And then Sam knows. It isn’t absolution or salvation Dean is offering, it’s Grace. An unmerited and undeserved gift of love and forgiveness. The very essence of what Dean is. His brother who raised him, who pulled him out of fire, and sold his soul for him and died in his arms and came back to him. Sam knows God has left the building, that his prophet is dead, and the angels war in heaven. And he knows that Dean loves him.

It is the one thing he has to hold onto later, when Castiel destroys the wall in his head, then takes all of purgatory into himself, and unleashes madness on them all.


	6. The Road the Stretches On and On and On, We're Moving Together.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Before sleep takes him, Sam is struck by how Dean and he keep coming back to each other, again and again. Sam wonders briefly what’s going to end it this time._

They’re older than Sam ever thought they’d be. Depending on if or how you count time in hell, Sam is almost 30 or possibly 150. Dean is 34, or maybe 74. Do you count the 100-something Tuesdays, or the four months between Wednesdays? Time spent in purgatory? In heaven? With all they’ve seen, can they even count death as an ending to their being? They are Sam and Dean in heaven, hell, and purgatory. And Sam, because he sees a light at the end of this tunnel, is going to close the doors to hell, and he’s going to take Dean with him into the end. And hell won’t be able to take Dean from him anymore.

After the Cassidys and the hellhounds (Sam’s not sure which was worse) the most amazing thing happens. They go home. They have a place to go without a plastic keycard and an always-too-early check out time. A place where they will be from. Standing under the pounding hot water of one of the many showers in the bunker, Sam longs for sleep in the vague kind of way one longs for something half-remembered in a dream. After forty-five minutes, Dean finally pushes his way all the way into the shower, fully clothed, and drags Sam out. 

“Forget where the exit was, little brother?” Dean asks while roughly but thoroughly drying Sam down with one of the enormous, soft towels they’d found in some closet somewhere. Then he manhandles Sam into the dead guy’s robe and Sam finally sees why Dean loves it so much. It’s like wearing a hug. Soft, and warm, and just like Sam always imagined a bathrobe could be. He’d never had a bathrobe before.

Dean laughs , and Sam realizes he must have said that out loud. “I’ll get you one for you birthday. Brand new,” Dean promises as he stands behind Sam, hands on his shoulders, and gently guides him out of the bathroom. Between the brain-fuck of the first trial, the adrenaline let-down shakes, and the shower, Sam is pretty much asleep on his feet, so it comes as a surprise when he feels himself sinking into Dean’s special mattress. Though the mattress might remember Dean, Sam remembers the mattress. He groans long and deep.

Dean laughs at him again, and Sam is just so damn happy – Dean’s alive, he’s going to stay alive, they might close hell forever, and Sam has a shot at finally repaying his debts and given Dean the future he deserves – he just starts laughing and laughing and laughing. He feels the mattress dip, feels the damp heat from Dean next to him. Shoulders still shaking with silent laughter, he rolls over into his brother, rubbing his head back and forth idly against Dean’s thighs as Dean makes shushing noises and rubs Sam’s back.

“You’re wet.” Sam plucks at Dean’s clothes ineffectually, making a face at the feel of wet sweatpants.

“That’s what happens during a water rescue.” He swats away Sam’s hands that are pulling at his clothes. “Cut it out, Handsy McHanderson.”

“Wet, Dean. You’re wet and cold and you’re harshing my mellow.”

“Your brain is a marshmallow. Did you slip some Hunter’s Helper into that shower while my back was turned?” Dean stands up and starts stripping out of his wet clothes.

Sam rolls onto his side to watch. He hasn’t been allowed to see this, hasn’t earned the right in a long time. The hitch in Dean’s movements tells Sam that Dean knows Sam is watching, but he doesn’t stop. Sam swallows with a suddenly dry mouth as Dean’s back is revealed as his t-shirt is pulled over his head. Sam feels flushed now, dizzy, laughter gone. He coughs, startling himself with the hacking sound. Dean is next to the bed instantly. “Sammy?”

Sam nods _it’s okay, it’s okay_ even as his body curves in on itself and his wrists ache where they’d glowed after the spell. Dean rubs and soothes and curses while Sam coughs. Eventually, it stops, and Sam unrolls onto his back, panting heavily, dead-guy robe twisting under him. Dean’s hand glides over his body as Sam rolls, sliding over his hip, and across his abdomen now bared to the world. Dean’s fingers carve gentle patterns over the muscles and bones. Sam shudders deep. He can’t even think past the burning of Dean’s fingers. Can’t look away. Can’t move, his fingers locked into the sheets. He’s afraid to speak, to crush this fragile moment, but he has to, has to know. “Dean?” He looks up at his brother, searching for his eyes. 

Dean tears his gaze away and meets Sam’s eyes. “Yeah, Sammy.” It’s a statement, not a question. 

Sam grabs Dean’s arm and pulls him down to the bed. Dean throws his arm over Sam’s chest, buries his head in his neck. Sam feels the stubble, feel the scars on Dean’s hand where it caresses his chest, fingers running lightly over the tattoo. Sam shakes his head laugh. Dean lifts his head in a question.

Sam traces his tattoo with Dean’s fingers. “Remember when demon possession was the scariest thing we had to worry about?”

Dean looks shocked for a half a second, then a laugh forces its way out of his throat. Sam feels his body shaking and it starts him laughing all over again. The laughter is a release as much as anything, and a big _fuck you_ to everything that’s tried to kill them over the years. They laugh until the tears come, until all that’s left is shaky inhales and the cathartic release.

Dean wipes the tears from his eyes. “Okay. Okay,” he says, patting Sam gently on the shoulder. “Ooh boy. Let’s get you to bed.”

“I’m not a kid, Dean.”

"No, you're a big manly man." Dean pushes up on one elbow and mock glowers at Sam. “Look me in the eye and tell me you couldn’t sleep for a week right now.”

Sam rolls his eyes, takes a deep breath in, “I…” he exhales loudly. “Can’t say that.”

Dean spread his hands, _I told you so_ written all over his face. “Fine,” Sam capitulates. “But you have to go to sleep, too.”

Dean leans over Sam, hand braced on his chest. So close, Sam would barely have to lean up to kiss him. “You want to sleep here? With me?” All Sam can see is the deep green of Dean’s eyes. The question, the worry, the love.

Sam has to know. “Do you want to?”

“Your choice, Sammy.” Dean’s breath is warm and sweet, the pressure of his hand strong and steady on Sam’s chest.

“Do you…what about all the stuff with…” He can’t say her name, still, with so much baggage attached to it. “And when I didn’t…you still?”

Dean smiles, a small one, but one hundred percent sincere, all Dean. “Blanket apologies all around, Sam, remember?" As if Sam could ever forget that night. "Okay?”

Sam can’t stop nodding. He can feel the smile spreading across his face. He can’t stop it. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.” He reaches up and grabs Dean’s head, pulling him down the last inch and they’re kissing. Kissing like they lovers back from the war, like remembering, like a promise. The kiss shifts from hard and desperate, to soft and loving, and back again like the tide, hands pressed in hair and gentle nips to the lips. Sam can’t get enough of Dean’s mouth, but when pulling off for oxygen turns into a jaw-breaking yawn, even Sam concedes it’s time to sleep.

Dean digs out some dead-guy pajamas (they have _got_ to stop calling them that) and tucks them both into bed. Sam is asleep within ten seconds, cradled against Dean’s chest.

***

It’s hard to know what time it is when thirst and an amazing need to pee wakes Sam up sometime later. There are no windows in Dean’s room and apparently no clock. Sam is on his stomach, Dean’s arm heavy across Sam's hips, his snores loud in Sam’s ear, and their legs tangled together. 

Dean barely budges as Sam slides out from underneath him, groaning with the movement. Everything hurts. His aches have aches. He shuffles to the bathroom, feeling as old as he imagines the guy who used to wear these pjs must be now. He pees, drinks from the sink, and takes some random painkillers all without turning on the light. He grabs a glass a water and some painkillers for Dean just in case.

When Sam slides back into bed, Dean silently shifts just enough to slide his hands under Sam’s shirt. Sam’s breath catches in his throat. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“S’okay,” Dean whispers back, hands sliding more deliberately, tickling up to circle around but never touching Sam’s nipples. The feel of Dean’s nails scratching across his chest give him goosebumps. “How you feeling?” Dean asks.

Sam gasps as Dean runs a rough fingertip over his nipple. “Better now.”

“Yeah?” And Sam can hear the smirk in Dean’s voice. _Bastard_. Two can play at that game. Sam tilts his head until his mouth is almost on Dean’s ear. “Yeah. How about you, Dean?” He runs the tip of his tongue along the shell of Dean’s ear, loving the shiver of Dean’s body against him. “You feeling okay, old man? Rested?”

Dean doesn’t answer, just sits up suddenly, and Sam is instantly, irrationally, afraid for a second that he’s read this whole thing wrong. They way Dean tears off his shirt put that fear to rest. “Naked. Now,” Dean orders, yanking his own pants off and throwing them somewhere behind him. Sam curses the darkness that keeps him from seeing the glory that is a nude Dean Winchester. “Naked. _Now_ ,” Dean repeats, grabbing the waistband of Sam’s bottoms and stripping them from Sam’s body so fast Sam is afraid he’s going to have fabric burns on his ass.

He laughs joyously. “Impatient?” His laughter falters as Dean yanks his legs apart and pulls, pressing their bodies together, and leans down to growl in his ear. “I’ve been waiting years to have you fuck me, little brother. Don’t make me wait too much longer.”

With a groan, Sam goes from half-hard to blinding erection in 2.7 seconds. His arms fly up to wrap around Dean and pull him closer in. Dean grinds his own hard cock into Sam’s. “That’s it, Sammy. God, so big.” Sam bucks his hips up involuntarily, moaning as Dean wedges his hand down between them to grab both of them. 

They moan in unison. Dean cursing and Sam thrusting up, helplessly. “Damn,” Dean curses in wonderment. “I don’t know whether to be jealous or proud.” He sits up, pulling free of Sam’s clasping hands, but without losing his grip on Sam’s prick. Sam can’t help thrusting into the steady firm strokes, begging for more and harder. He shouts as Dean strokes hard upwards ending in a twist that makes Sam leak. Sam’s imagination fills in the picture as he feels Dean draws a finger through the pearly liquid at the top of Sam’s cock. He throbs hard against Dean’s hands. “Dean,” he groans, like it’s the only word he can remember to say. “Please.”

Dean shifts a bit and flicks the bedside lamp on. Sam sees Dean give a grin Lucifer would be proud of and he leans hard over Sam’s body. Mouth nipping and biting at Sam’s neck as he stretches for the nightstand near the bed. Dean thrusts lazily and sloppily against Sam as he fumbles one handed in the drawer. “Aha!” he raises the lube triumphantly, and Sam can’t help but laugh.

Dean leans in and kisses him hard. “Love that laugh, Sammy. Now fuck me like you mean it. if I don’t have that monster cock in me soon, I’m going to tie you up and take it from you.” Sammy moans deep and long at that mental picture and feels Dean’s fingers grip tight at the base of his erection. 

“Jesus, Dean.” Dean grabs Sam hand and pours some of the lube into, rubbing it up and down his fingers. He knee-walks up Sam’s body until his cock is resting on Sam’s lips. He twists slightly so the tips brushes gently across Sam’s mouth and pulls Sam’s slicked up hand around the curve of his ass. “C’mon college-boy. Show me what you got.” This is obviously Dean’s show and all Sam can do is hold on for the ride. Sam is surprisingly right on board with that idea.

He opens his mouth and slides his hand between the cheeks of Dean’s ass. He finds the ring of muscle and pushes against it, sliding right in and forcing Dean’s cock between this lips. Dean falls forward with a curse and braces himself on the headboard. Sam doesn’t let up, pushing and pulling in and out, each push in forcing Dean deeper into mouth.

“Jesus, holy fuck.” The words roll out of Dean’s mouth like an obscene prayer as he thrusts back and forth, chasing all the sensations at the same time. His hands are clenched on the headboard as it bangs into the wall with each thrust. Sam knows Dean won’t feel the bruises until tomorrow, and never has Sam been so glad not to be in a motel with paper-thin walls as he is right now. When Sam forces in a third finger, one of Dean’s hands falls down from the headboard and tangles in Sam’s hair. "Shit, shit, shit," Dean chants. He pulls Sam's head forward roughly, pushing his cock deeper down Sam's throat then Sam was ready for, but before he can even complain, Dean yanks him off of Sam's dick and lunges up on his knees, pulling away from the relentless press of Sam’s fingers.

“Sam, Sam. Gonna come. Don’t…want you in me. Want to come on you.” He leans down on the headboard again, panting, fingers locked around the base of his cock, wet and shiny with Sam’s spit. Sam’s mouth waters and he tries to get him mouth on it again, but Dean grabs his chin and holds him still. “No. Be a good boy, Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes roll back in his head and he groans deep in his chest. That shouldn’t get him so hard, but then again he shouldn’t be fucking his brother anyway, so what the fuck. Dean chuckles darkly into Sam’s mouth as he slides back down Sam’s body. “Oh, we are so going to work with that, baby boy,” And Sam is going to come any second, so, “Shut the hell up and fuck me already or I’m going to come all over you. And after I do, I’m rolling over and going to sleep. I killed a hellhound today.”

Dean freezes, hand stilling in the act of slicking up Sam’s dick. Sam freezes at the same time, eyes locking on to Dean, afraid he broached a thing they weren’t ready to talk about. He’s not prepared for the pride and love he sees in Dean’s eyes. “Yeah, you did. And it was..” He grabs Sam at the base, lifts up on his knees, and slides down Sam’s cock in one smooth move that absolutely knocks all the air out of Sam’s lungs. “…awesome.”

Sam looses the plot after that, but he’s pretty sure there was cursing, thrusting, shouting, and, judging by the bruises on Dean’s hip the next morning, grabbing of Dean as Sam tries desperately to gain some control. But Dean is relentless, a force of nature. He surges up and down Sam, around and over him, until Sam can hear nothing but the blood roaring in his ears and feel nothing but Dean and the heat coiling and pulsing at the base of his spine. Dean leans over him, one hand braced hard against Sam’s shoulder, the other pulling ruthlessly at his cock. Sam feels him clench and still, feels the hot release spurt against his stomach and chest. “Dean!” he shouts and comes and comes.

Dean rolls off with a groan. There is grumbling and Sam is almost instantly asleep. He rouses briefly at the touch of a warm washrag being run gently over his chest, and mumbles as Dean lifts him up to slide a soft t-shirt over his head. “You’re like a giant toddler,” Dean grumbles as he pulls Sam’s arms through the sleeves.

Sam snorts sleepily as Dean shoves and pulls him into the cradle of his arm and shoulder. “You sure like shoving me around,” he complains in a mumble, mouth pressed against Dean’s chest.

“You love it,” Dean says, kissing the top of his head.

“Yeah, I do,” Sam confesses.

“Go to sleep, Sammy. I love you.”

“Love you, De.”

Before sleep takes him, Sam is struck by how Dean and he keep coming back to each other, again and again. Sam wonders briefly what’s going to end it this time. It’s probably his turn to die. _‘We’ve been down roads like this before, man._ he remembers Dean saying. _We both know where this ends; one of us dies. Or worse._ But Sam isn’t worried. He isn’t scared. He’s long since given up trying to figure out the future. He sees the light, sure. But Dean is the heart of this operation. The Man of Letters and the Hunter. They’ll get through it together.


End file.
